Please, don’t shoot him. Please, don’t shoot him.
A second later, Jean-Pierre’s man didn’t waste words. He simply grabbed the guy, dragged him forward, and shoved him out of the ballroom. The rest of the bachelor party rose and stood in shock. They’d been drinking as much as Mr. Rowdy. For a minute, the guys turned to Jean-Pierre’s table as if they were going to have some heated words.
I skipped a few notes but picked the melody back up.
Mind your business.
The waitress made wild gestures at the men as they glared at Jean-Pierre. She stepped between one of them that headed Jean-Pierre’s way as if to say, “don’t even think about going over there.”
Meanwhile, Jean-Pierre hadn’t even turned around. He’d been focused on my left hand’s fingers as I placed them on each string to play specific notes. I studied his expression. No longer did he frown or glare, instead he looked to be subtly moving his lips.
Is he reciting the notes that I’m playing? No Way.
I tested this out, speeding up the rhythm, and watching him. As I played faster, so did those full lips. Jean-Pierre stayed with my pace.
How is he following the song? Did he play before?
He didn’t look like a guy that played violin. He looked more like a man who could kill someone with a violin. Gorgeous face or not, there was no denying the danger that radiated from him.
At least he likes my playing. He had his men get rid of the loud guy.
The rest of the bachelor party followed. I didn’t think they’d gotten their money’s worth this night.
I switched to a new song, and again Jean-Pierre followed along. His lips were yummy. It was bad that I focused. It was wrong to enjoy their movement so much. It was like his mouth was its own instrument, and I wanted very much for my body to play it.
Girl! What are you doing?
I let out a long breath and paced myself, throwing my mind into the music. I had two hours of nonstop playing. It was crazy and strenuous, but at least I loved to do it. The joy of it made the time go by, the muscles in my arm strain less, and the feeling of accomplishing something rise.
An hour went by, guests drank more and grew increasingly uninhibited. I shifted to modern songs, remembering a few hip-hop beats and pop tunes. A few people rose and danced along the stage. Others were even more daring. I caught several erotic moments that I’d hoped Eros had inspired. The sliding of fingers into pussies. The mouths of many opening in ecstasy and several hard cocks being drawn out of pants. Many disappeared into the other levels.
Several bills filled my hat. Men and even some of the women had tossed money into it. I couldn’t wait to count the tips during my first break.
I smiled, thinking Aunt Celina would be happy with this situation. If anything, people seemed to enjoy the violin.
Or they’re scared Jean-Pierre will have his men drag them out.
Toward the end of the second hour, the room emptied. Only a few tables remained full, but they appeared to be heading to a room soon.
Even a few of Jean-Pierre’s men had gone off with women.
But he remained.
I thought back to the “Fifty Shades of Classical Music” and performed Strauss’s Dance of the Seven Veils. Strauss’s seductive heroine, Salome, strip teased at this point in the opera. She danced for King Herod so that he would grant her wishes. Some productions showed the singer removing each of her seven veils one by one. At the end of the song, she stood on the stage naked.
With shock, Jean-Pierre reacted to the song. For the first time, he rocked his head side-to-side, leaning forward in his chair and closing his eyes as he listened along.
He knows this song. Wow.
And as I played, I tried not to look at him. Still I caught flashes of that sexy face and the magic of his mouth moving with the notes in the songs.
When the song ended, he opened his eyes and took my breath away.
I blushed and ended the song with a few stumbled notes. I saved myself by moving into a new tune.
Damn. It’s hard to play around him.
In the middle of the song, Shalimar appeared at the edge of the stage and signaled for my first break.
Thank God.
I finished, giving the song the last bit of my energy.
The moment it ended. One person clapped. I looked up.
Jean-Pierre.
I nodded. “Thank you.”
Shalimar rolled her eyes and stepped onto the stage.
The room emptied and a few men headed for the exit. Others slipped off with women dangling on their arms. I placed Eros in the case, closed it, and turned off the microphone in front of me.
“You did great,” Shalimar said. “I took a video for your aunt. I think she cried.”